


Actually Married

by valeriange



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, Memory Loss, Other, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22117204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valeriange/pseuds/valeriange
Summary: Drift gets hit over the helm while defending Ratchet, and subsequently forgets that he and Ratchet are together.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Comments: 14
Kudos: 256





	Actually Married

When Drift onlines his optics, it’s to find Rodimus staring down sheepishly at him. His captain’s grin is all show and no honesty, and Drift is too tired and sore to really care.

“So,” Rodimus starts slowly, “turns out you were right, that planet _was_ marked ‘unfriendly to Cybertronians’ for a reason.”

“Planet?” Drift murmurs.

One of Rodimus’s optical ridges cocks up. “Yeah,” he says. “Scoria. The planet we just visited. I think you can still see it from the viewport, _but_ ,” he hastily adds, “they don’t have spaceships, so it’s fine.”

Drift tries to remember a ‘Scoria’ and so many snapshots of battles filter through behind his optics he feels a processor ache coming on and shuts the search down. He shakes his helm at Rodimus. “I don’t remember.”

Rodimus is frowning now. “Huh.” Suddenly, a brilliant ersatz grin takes over his faceplates. “I mean, it’s probably fine. First Aid said you got hit pretty hard and it might take some time for your memories to boot back up. How much do you remember?”

His question falls on offline audials as Drift’s processor latches on to something else. “First Aid?” he says. “Where’s Ratchet?”

Rodimus shrugs. “Dunno. Off doing medic-stuff I guess.”

Though Drift’s processor is lagging, he can still clearly remember the dozens, perhaps hundreds, of times he had taken it upon himself to pick out medical-related duties as Rodimus’ officer for an excuse to be in the med-bay. All those times he had goaded Ratchet into conversations and good-natured bouts of verbal sparring. Though Ratchet had more than a few good reasons to dislike him, he had started to believe that he was growing on the gruff old medic. So why leave him to First Aid?

Apparently, in his weary state, his composure falls, because a moment later Rodimus asks, “You sure you’re good?”

Drift matches the fake smile Rodimus always wore. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says.

He is going to have to up his game with Ratchet, though.

* * *

Drift is released from the med-bay early that morning by a very professional First Aid. He knows he needs to recollect some of his recent memories to know exactly where he stands with Ratchet, so he immediately makes his way to Swerve’s.

Quite a few mechs seem surprised to see Drift up and about. Tailgate exclaims something about how he read about head wounds on the data-net and thought for sure Drift was going to die. From what he gathers, he puts together that what was supposed to be a fun exploratory evening on Scoria turned into a skirmish with the anti-Cybertronian populace.

“Rodimus’s group stayed on the outskirts to look around the landscape,” Swerve is narrating. “You know, just for some fun exploration stuff. But then these giant guards came out of nowhere and were like ‘ _We don’t like Cybertronians here’_ and Rodimus—”

“Wait,” Drift interrupts. “Rodimus’s group? There were more than one?”

Tailgate says, “Whoa. You really _did_ lose your memory.”

Swerve hesitates before explaining, “Yeah. Rodimus lead the exploration group, and Ratchet said he wanted to look at some of their medical supplies or something, and you offered to go with him.”

“I was with Ratchet?” Drift says, stunned. Alone? He had alone time with Ratchet, away from the ship, away from Rodimus, and it got _ruined_? Ratchet would probably never want to spend time with him alone again if this is how their encounters were destined to go. Drift feels his spark sink in utter despair. He had been so close.

Swerve’s shock seems to turn into something more akin to confusion. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “You always go with Ratchet when we land on planets.”

An impossible pressure lifts off Drift’s shoulders. This wasn’t the only time he had gotten to spend with Ratchet alone, so it wouldn’t mar his memory of Drift with those of conflict – more than they already were. He might still want to spend time with Drift in the future, and that elates Drift so much at the mere thought of it that he feels the same peace he aspires to when meditating.

“Oh! I know what happens next!” Tailgate says. “About the same time Rodimus met up with the guards, you and Ratchet met up with an unfriendly shop owner and he called the guards on you two.”

Drift can still feel the throbbing in his helm and the accompanying processor ache. “That’s all?” he asks. “I wasn’t in the battle?”

“You were in _a_ battle,” Swerve says. “From what I heard of Ratchet’s ranting when he brought you back to the ship, they shoved Ratchet or something, and you took on like six giant guards on your own.”

He saved Ratchet. Surely that should better Ratchet’s opinion of him.

He needs to see Ratchet. Maybe they hadn’t parted on bad terms. Maybe First Aid saw to him because Ratchet was busy with something else.

Drift stands up from the table and tries to say casually, “My processor is killing me. I think I’m going to stop by the med-bay and see about a quick check-up on—”

“You’ll have to comm First Aid,” Swerve interrupts.

Drift’s optic ridges furrow. “What?”

“Ratchet’s the only medic on shift today,” Swerve says, “so you’ll have to comm First Aid and see him.”

Oh no. Oh _no_. Something had gone terribly wrong. Ratchet refuses to even see Drift? To treat him? And after Drift was hurt trying to help him? What had happened between them? Drift needs to remember. He needs to fix this. He can’t just— just _not see_ Ratchet.

Okay. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to see First Aid. He is Ratchet’s apprentice, he could let something slip to Drift about what had happened.

He could still fix this and get Ratchet back.

* * *

On the way to First Aid’s hab-suite, Drift has enough time to think over what he knows and concoct a likely story.

He and Ratchet were close, close enough that they went together on planetary excursions together. But something bad must have happened between them. Since Scoria was unfriendly to Cybertronians, Drift could have made a convincing case about Ratchet needing protection and scored himself a position at Ratchet’s side again. But they were interrupted before whatever rift that had appeared between them could be fixed, a rift so great that Ratchet would no longer even treat Drift as a patient.

He is now less concerned about the throbbing processor ache from his lost memories than he is about how he is going to fix this between Ratchet and himself, when he doesn’t even remember what they were to each other or what happened. Were he and Ratchet still co-workers on the same shift? Had Drift managed to graduate to friendship with him only to frag it up? Had Ratchet just realized that he could associate with better mechs than Drift? Had something reminded him of _Deadlock_? _That_ is what he needed First Aid to sort out for him.

Unfortunately, he catches sight of Rodimus’s gleaming red and gold paint in the hallway, just one turn away from First Aid’s door. So close.

“Hey! You’re up and about!” Rodimus closes the distance between them and claps Drift heartily on the shoulder. “I _told_ Ratchet you were fine! Barely a scrape, right?”

Drift has yet to get a clear answer on exactly what he had done to his helm to lose his memories, but he figures nodding and saying ‘yeah’ will get Rodimus to go on his way quickly.

“While I have you,” Rodimus says, “let me run this by you. I was thinking—”

Drift doesn’t hear a word. Rodimus told Ratchet he was fine? Had Ratchet… asked about him? To the _captain_? Maybe he just wanted to know if Drift would be on duty anytime soon. But what if it was something else? What if he really cared about how Drift was doing, and asked Rodimus since Rodimus had been there when Drift awoke? Drift really wants that to be the answer, however improbable it may be.

When a lull enters the conversation, Drift asks, “Hey, Rodimus, do you think Ratchet likes me?”

Rodimus stares at him, dumbfounded, for a moment before saying, “I sure hope he does.”

“Me too,” Drift murmurs, and knocks on First Aid’s door.

Rodimus silently slinks away.

First Aid answers the door almost immediately after Drift knocks. Drift can’t exactly tell due to First Aid’s mask, but he thinks the littler mech is frowning. He gestures for Drift to enter.

“I thought this would happen,” First Aid says. “You were hit pretty hard. I didn’t want to release you from the med-bay to begin with, but I’d rather have Ratchet on my aft than Rodimus underfoot all day.”

Drift sits down where First Aid points him. “What would Ratchet do to you?”

First Aid begins to shuffle through a few instruments in a cabinet. “With anyone else? Probably blame Rodimus for being an annoyance and let it go. With you? Give me an audial-full about proper procedure and risk assessment and patient— oh, here it is!” First Aid pulls out a small scanner and walks back over to Drift.

The black hole that had consumed Drift’s chassis seems to lift its pressure the smallest bit, but he isn’t ready to get his hopes up again. “Really?” he asks.

First Aid positions the scanner next to Drift’s helm. “Yeah. Sometimes the speech varies, though. The last thing I want is a repeat of Deivos. Even Magnus thought he was being overbearing.”

Magnus, who Drift knows dislikes him with a passion.

Drift’s helm is still spinning over the idea that Ratchet might turn against First Aid – his talented apprentice – in favor of defending Drift. Maybe he’s hallucinating this encounter, because that seems so sweet and it’s impossible that Ratchet likes Drift enough to do that when he barely tolerates him most of the time.

And – this hits Drift next – First Aid said it like he expected Ratchet to do it _again_ in the future. A Ratchet that hates Drift wouldn’t pick him over First Aid. Drift feels his spark rising again. There must be hope for them! First Aid knows Ratchet better than anyone else on the ship. If he believes Ratchet would still step up for Drift, then there’s a good chance Ratchet really would.

He needs to find Ratchet immediately. Even if Ratchet refuses to see him in the med-bay, he knows where Ratchet’s hab-suite is – conveniently right next to the med-bay. They need to sort this out – this, whatever happened between them that has Ratchet refusing to see Drift and leaving him in First Aid’s albeit capable servos. He _wants_ Ratchet with him, especially as confused as he is now.

Then again, Drift _wanting_ Ratchet _with him_ isn’t exactly something new.

He really needs to get out of this appointment and find Ratchet. The sooner he sorts this out between them, the sooner he can enjoy being in Ratchet’s company again. And Primus, he really did enjoy it. He looked forward to it, every shift.

First Aid inspects the results of the scan. “I expect you’re still having some memory troubles,” he says.

“Just recent ones,” Drift murmurs. His processor has latched onto the idea of Ratchet and it’s hard to focus on the now.

“How recent?” First Aid queries.

“Would Ratchet go to his hab if his shift is slow?” Drift asks in return.

First Aid stares at him for a moment. “His… hab,” First Aid echoes slowly.

“Yeah. It’s connected to the med-bay, isn’t it? So if he wasn’t with patients, he would be there working, right?”

“Isn’t it?” First Aid repeats again.

“I mean, if I wanted – if I _needed_ to talk to him, I could go by there, right? He would be in there working and wouldn’t mind me stopping by?”

First Aid says, “I feel like you would know more about Ratchet’s hab and it’s unspoken rules than I would.”

Drift can almost picture it – being able to come and go from Ratchet’s hab freely, maybe even having a space there for himself, at the center of Ratchet’s life – and he sighs. “I wish.”

First Aid sets down the scanner. “The med-bay is slow today, so Ratchet should be in his hab. I think you should go by there.”

Drift perks up. “Really? You don’t think he would mind.”

“I really, really don’t think he would,” First Aid says.

* * *

Drift has walked the way to the med-bay so many times that it’s practically instinct now. Down the hall from the entrance to the bay, there is a plain metal door with a scanning lock, discreetly placed along the otherwise bare hall.

Drift makes his way up to it and timidly knocks – once, twice – before he can lose his nerve. First Aid said it would be fine, and First Aid knows Ratchet so well, so it must be okay for Drift to come here. First Aid wouldn’t have sent him this way if he thought Ratchet was still angry with Drift; he’s far too kind for that.

Drift looks at the scanner wistfully, imaging what it would be like to walk down this hallway after a long day of cleaning up after Rodimus’s antics and place his hand on the glass and have the door open without hesitation. He imagines what it would be like to be able to enter Ratchet’s space whenever he felt like it, to have Ratchet all to himself with no responsibilities to worry about in the back of his processor.

Drift doesn’t remember raising his servo and placing it on the glass, just to get a touch of what it would feel like. Hearing the click of a lock disengaging brings him out of his fantasy and into the present once more.

Ratchet isn’t standing in the doorway, and his servo is still on the lock, which flashes green one last time before returning to its grey face. It opened. For him. Ratchet had given Drift unconditional, free entrance to his hab-suite.

In a nearly dream-like state, Drift steps inside, and the door whooshes shut behind him. The lights are on, signaling Ratchet is somewhere in there. The living area is far less austere than Drift would have guessed, with a number of shelves lined with data-pads and—crystals? On a free space between the shelves hangs a Great Sword that Drift would recognize anywhere.

Drift starts to wonder if he accidentally made his way into his hab-suite by accident, but this couldn’t be it. Despite being an officer, he had elected for a small, cozy suite with just a berth-room and a shower. Most of his belongings – his crystal collection, for one – had been forced into storage in boxes under his berth. He liked the small space better; in an attack, it would be easier to defend than one with multiple rooms and far more hiding areas.

But no. Not all of this is his. He recognizes a bottle of Ratchet’s favorite engex on the counter. Sitting on the table by the couch is what Drift clearly recognizes as a medical journal from Cybertron, the still-alight screen displaying a diagram of something Drift _doesn’t_ recognize.

He is pulled from his confused state by the sound of a clatter from what he thinks is the berth-room, and then Ratchet appears in the doorway, an optical ridge cocked.

“You good?” Ratchet says. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Drift is so confused he can’t even bother to try and play it all off long enough to gather details on what’s going on. “Do I… live here?”

Ratchet’s optics widen. “Damn. That guard really did hit you hard.”

“My Great Sword is on your wall.”

“ _Our_ Great Sword is on _our_ wall.” Ratchet is smiling when he says it, the way he does when he knows he’s about to goad Drift into a match of verbal sparring.

Drift is far too confused to bite back. “Our… I live here too? With you?”

“Well, it would be pretty strange if I didn’t live with my conjunx.”

“I’m your _conjunx_?!”

Ratchet opens his mouth, then closes it again. “I think we should sit down and discuss how much you remember.”

* * *

He’s Ratchet’s conjunx. He has been for two vorns now. They had a ceremony on-board the ship, presided over by Rodimus, then took their dilapidated little shuttle – fixed up by Perceptor and Brainstorm as a Conjunxing gift – on a honeymoon before returning to their positions on the Lost Light.

And Drift can’t remember any of it.

He does remember more than before. He remembers their first kiss on the shuttle back to the Lost Light, after Ratchet crossed entire galaxies to find him and bring him home. He remembers Ratchet asking if he wanted to become conjunx while on a planet that seemed like a mix of crystal shores and dark blue water.

Ratchet performs a scan on his helm as well, with a larger device than what First Aid used. He says, “The rest of your memories should come back soon. Less than a joor. Your processor is still rebooting. A good night’s recharge and you should be fine.”

“Why couldn’t you tell me that to begin with?” Drift asks, trying not to let any hurt show in his voice. “Why did I have to go to First Aid?”

Ratchet laughs. “I don’t suppose you remember how many times we’ve had that conversation.”

Drift shakes his head.

“You’re my conjunx. I can’t treat you. It’s a conflict of interest. I can’t even access your file anymore, only First Aid can.”

So that was why Swerve told him he couldn’t go to the med-bay. It makes sense now, and Drift feels giddy in comparison to the terror he had felt then. Ratchet isn’t mad at him, he’s _conjunxed_ to him.

Ratchet does eventually have to go back to the med-bay, leaving Drift alone in their – _their_! – hab-suite. Drift picks through their belongings, slowly coming to recognize each one and how it got there. He remembers Ratchet teasing him about the extensive collection of crystals, before placing them on the shelves alongside his data-pads. He remembers Ratchet putting the anchors on the wall to hold his Great Sword. He remembers Ratchet helping him carry the sparse belongings from his room to Ratchet’s hab-suite, since it was bigger and closer to the command deck and med-bay, and Ratchet’s sad look when he found the collection of energon cubes Drift kept hidden beneath his berth.

When Ratchet finally comes home – to _their_ home – Drift has scoured through everything in the hab-suite and collected quite a few missing memories. He still has glaring blind spots, and he doesn’t understand how he came to be here, but he knows he’s more than welcome.

Ratchet runs a hand over his faceplates wearily and closes the distance between them. He takes Drift’s servo in his and pulls him close, planting a short kiss on his lips.

Drift’s processor stops working.

He does a soft reboot, and Ratchet is laughing harder than ever. “If only I had known it was _that_ easy to get you to shut up,” Ratchet says, “I’d have kissed you senseless ages ago.”

Drift shoves him, and Ratchet easily resists.

“I hate you,” Drift says, without any fire.

“So _that’s_ why you came to my hab-suite, all nervous and flustered.”

“Shut up.”

Ratchet kisses him again, and suddenly he can’t remember what they were arguing about.

Ratchet still has his servo in his own, and he tugs lightly on it as he steps back. “I’m exhausted, and Rodimus is probably going to want you back on the bridge tomorrow,” he says. “Let’s recharge.”

Drift thinks his spark flickers for a moment. He had just come to accept that he had a permanent space in Ratchet’s life, a home in his home, and it hadn’t crossed his processor that said home has only one berth. Obviously they recharged together.

Ratchet notices his hesitation. “I can take the couch,” he says.

“No!” Drift says quickly.

Ratchet doesn’t look convinced, and says, “If you’re uncomfortable, then—”

“I’m not,” Drift says. “Just. Surprised.”

“You’re sure?”

Drift laughs softly. “Ratchet, just this morning I thought we were co-workers and you were avoiding me because you hated me, and now I find out I’m conjunxed to the mech I’ve loved since the Dead End. I think I’m in shock.”

Ratchet leans forward to kiss him, and this time Drift wraps his arms around Ratchet’s neck and brings himself flush against Ratchet’s frame to keep him from pulling back so soon. His servos rest lightly on Drift’s hips. Everything feels so right, so normal, that Drift can’t doubt it in the slightest. He could feel Ratchet’s spark against his own, even through their armor. _Home_.

* * *

Falling asleep was harder than Drift expected. He still had the memories of a mech who had shunned any sort of contact, any affection, since joining the Decepticons. He knew, logically, that he had to have recharged alongside Ratchet for vorns now, but his processor couldn’t accept that fact. It seemed too good to be true.

Eventually, he did fall into recharge, his helm resting against the glass of Ratchet’s chassis.

When he woke up, he was alone. The door to the berth-room was open, and Ratchet stood at the counter next to the energon dispenser, a cube in one hand and a data-pad in the other.

He looked up when he heard the berth-sheets rustle. “You remember everything now?”

Drift had a killer processor ache. Rodimus could fare on his own for one more day, and First Aid had the med-bay covered. He rubbed his helm and fell back down onto the berth, muttering something into the covers.

“What was that, sweetspark?”

“It is not ‘ _our’_ Great Sword.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Blanks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23535001) by [QueenAng](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenAng/pseuds/QueenAng)




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